


Portraiture

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got a little art project needs doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portraiture

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery through season 5 SPN, season 1 WC.  
> Prompted by naturelf on LJ.

It's a change in the air that wakes Neal, or maybe the faint whine of a floorboard under sudden weight. Whatever it is snaps him from asleep to awake in an instant, one chilling thought in his head: _There's someone in my room._

The lamp by the window clicks on, its lowest setting still too bright, and a gruff voice says, "Neal Caffrey? Agents Dorsett and Christie, FBI."

Neal sits up, squinting against the light. There's a man in a lived-in leather jacket standing at the foot of his bed; another, wearing a trench coat, is over by the window. Both far away from the door--which is closed tight, the deadbolt and chain still in place--and Neal can't believe his instincts have dulled _that_ much.

If they have, he needs to invest in some better locks.

He's not completely useless, though. After giving each of his visitors a quick but searching look, he says with complete certainty, "You're not FBI." Leather Jacket blinks; Neal relaxes--fractionally--and makes a show of lounging back against his pillows. "Guys. Come on."

Over by the window, Trench Coat nods. "He's right, Dean. We make very poor federal agents."

Leather Jacket--Dean--rolls his eyes to the ceiling and turns to glare at his compatriot. "Okay, fine, but you don't say that where people can _hear you_ , remember?" His exasperation has no effect on Trench Coat, who stands placidly as Dean turns back to Neal and blusters right past the faux pas. "I'm Dean. This is Cas. I know you're Neal Caffrey, 'cause if you weren't, we wouldn't be here."

Neal nods, adopting as imperious an air as he can manage in bedhead and pyjama bottoms. Now that he's effectively deflated the tension from their deliberately unsettling entrance, Dean and--Cas?--don't seem overtly threatening; Neal's pretty sure he can work with that, hopefully long enough to either get them to leave or get out himself. "And why are you here?"

"We've got a little art project needs doing. A friend of a friend threw your name in the ring, seemed to think you could pull it off."

Ah. "Yeah?" Neal shrugs, studiously flippant. "Well, I don't know who you've been talking to or what they've been telling you, but before you give me any more details, you should know there's one thing I really can't pull off these days." Moving carefully--he hasn't seen any guns, but Dean strikes him as the type to keep one close to hand--he draws aside his blankets and tugs at the leg of his pjs, revealing the ankle monitor.

To Neal's surprise, Dean barely glances at it before smirking, completely unfazed. "I guess the FBI thing was dumb even without Cas's input." He meets Neal's gaze again, the glimpse of humour falling away. "Look, I'm not asking you to do anything illegal, okay? Hell, I'm not even asking you to leave this room."

Taking a chance, Neal swings his legs out of bed and stands up. Neither Dean nor Cas make any move to stop him. "What are you asking me to do?"

"Like I said: I've got this art project." Dean moves around the end of the bed, approaching Neal, his expression serious but absent of anything Neal would call dangerous. "My brother, Sam--he had a meeting a few days ago. In Detroit. He didn't want to go, but there were a bunch of really, _really_ annoying reasons why he couldn't avoid it." He pauses, just for a moment, the hint of a tough smile tugging at his mouth. "But Sam, he's a smart kid--sometimes he is, anyway--so before he left, he did some research, and he found out some things, and he took some precautions."

Completely unable to figure out where this could possibly be going, Neal repeats, "Precautions?"

"To make sure he'd be able to come back from that meeting. Or at least to let us hope he might." With that, Dean reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a photo, and offers it to Neal. "This is Sam."

Neal takes it. Oddly, it turns out to be a picture of a painting--an incredibly bland painting, the kind that people have done from photos at carnivals. In fact, it almost looks more like the fruit of somebody's afternoon spent playing with filters in Photoshop than an actual, painted portrait. Even the subject is boring: a guy in his mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and plaid, just standing there. Not posed, no particular expression on his face--no scenery around him, a featureless grey-blue sky behind--just...there.

Neal looks up at Dean again, curious now despite himself. Dean half-turns toward Cas, who steps forward with a covered canvas in his hands. As he props the canvas on Neal's bed and pulls at the sheet draped over it, Dean says, with an odd note in his voice, "This is the job."

When the canvas is uncovered, Neal can't help leaning away. It's hideous: a grotesque, demonic figure stands front and centre, eyes like voids in a face contorted with hatred and sadistic glee. Blood drips--no, _flows_ \--from its mouth, coats its hands and arms past the elbows, spatters across the figure's crisp white suit. The ground beneath it is strewn with what look like rotting corpses, and behind it, small figures can be seen screaming, engulfed in smoky flames.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Neal asks, loathe to touch the painting, much less do anything with it not involving very real, very destructive fire. But then, as he stares at it, strangely captivated by its visceral ugliness, he notices--dimensions. Sizes and shapes. White space and the orientation of the subject and--

He tears his gaze from the hideous portrait, looks back at the picture of the artless painting in his hand. "Are these--" He looks up at Dean again; the expression on Dean's face is shuttered, tense, and he's focused on Neal like he's the only other thing in the room. "Is this the same portrait?"

It's Cas who answers, his voice grave. "Are you familiar with the story of Dorian Gray, Mister Caffrey?"

Neal stares.

Dean takes a step closer, his back resolutely to the portrait of his brother. "You're gonna restore it," he says.


End file.
